


The View from the Closet

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Anal, Anal Fingering, Come Cry With Me, Death, Frottage, Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral, Past Drug Use, Prostitution, Rimming, Sad, Self-Hatred, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old, closeted, terminally ill John Watson decides he wants to have a first- and last- fling before he dies… with the hot young man who mows the lawns in his neighborhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

It disgusted John that he’d spent the better part of his life hiding his sexuality. He’d hidden it for so long that even when it had become acceptable he’d just kept on hiding it; long past his parents’ deaths; long past his brother dying; long past a few of his army mates coming out of their closets. He’d lived to see a nephew marry another man and still had resolutely stared at the inside of his closet door without a thought as to how okay everyone would be with it if he admitted he liked cock… or would if he’d ever had a _taste_ of cock, because the sad fact was that John was so firmly in the closet that even other gay men didn’t know he was gay. He was a virgin, barring an awkward tumble with a woman that had made him absolutely disgusted with himself when he couldn’t get aroused. The closest thing to a gay sexual experience was porn, and he’d been so dreadfully ashamed of it that he’d hidden it under _literal_ lock and key.

Sadly, now it was too late. He was seventy-two years old and he hadn’t needed his doctor to sit him down to explain the facts to him. Six months to live. Six months, the latter of which would be spent in hospice when he became too sick to wipe his own mouth let alone his ass.

John tossed his car keys down and then stared at them, wondering when he’d be so sick that his nephew or niece would take his keys away, leaving him dependent on others or public transportation. John picked up his mail and tried to force himself to see the good side of things.

_I should make a bucket list. Go places. I’ve got a few months of mobility left. I’ll see the world. Maybe date… no… not date. Fuck, I’ve never dated I don’t even know_ how _to. And to do what? Leave a guy with a grave to visit? No way. Not happening._

John glanced out his window and saw the fit young neighbor boy who usually mowed his lawn. The lad was covered in tattoos and had piercings everywhere (John hoped) curly dark hair, and the most gorgeous eyes John had ever seen on anyone or anything anywhere. He had a drug problem and was on probation, which had led to him working around John’s slum of a neighborhood rather than hanging out in his own _posh_ neighborhood with his drug-addled mates shooting up. John was admiring his shapely arse when the young thing turned and vomited onto the pavement.

John was out the door and hurrying towards him before he realized he’d even grabbed his keys. He reached the shaky young man and grasped his arm.

“It’s okay, I’m a doctor,” John said in a soothing voice.

“You’re a queer,” The man replied, straightening up and smiling as if nothing had happened, “Who was just _waiting_ for me to show signs of withdrawal so he could run over and offer to help. Just grope my ass and get it over with.”

_Tempting but…_

“Umm…” John stammered, then looked anywhere but at the young man and ended up staring down at his sick. Or lack thereof, “Pop? Really?”

“It worked, didn’t it? Got you out of your house and off of your porch where you usually sit all day watching me. Do you toss off after? Does it even still work?”

John wanted to slap him. Instead he gripped his cane more firmly and started off back across the road with anger tingeing his vision white around the edges. The young man tackled him to the ground and he shouted in pain as his knees were scraped and his shoulder wrenched painfully. A car horn sounded and John stared at the license plate in shock as they peeled themselves off of the pavement.

“Thanks,” John muttered as the lad pulled him up by his good arm, “Good day.”

“Not so fast,” The man replied, “Look, I didn’t mean to piss you off. You seem like the sort who can handle some taunting, might even like it.”

John tolerated the lad leading him the rest of the way to his door, but only because he liked the feel of his hands on his hip and arm.

“Normally you’d be right,” John muttered.

“You’re an army doctor, you’ve been to war, survived being shot, haven’t gone round the bend because of it. You yell at all the kids around the neighborhood, chase them off your lawn every day, but they know you don’t mean it and come back to torment you anyway. You love it. You’re the neighborhood mascot.”

“Your point?”

“Normally I’d be right, but?”

_But today I found out I’m going to die a virgin_.

John didn’t say it out loud. He couldn’t. He still had some pride left to him- at least until the first box of adult diapers showed up. They’d stopped at his front door and he was fumbling with his keys, his fingers numb from being so close to such a gorgeous young man.

“Something is wrong. You’re not yourself,” The young man noticed.

“Listen… what was your name?” John asked.

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock. Well, I suppose that’s a hair better than Apple or Prince. Listen Sherlock; I’m an old man. I don’t need someone born in a completely _different_ century telling me I fucked my life up. I’m well aware of that.”

_Not. What. I. Meant. To. Say._

“Not to late to fix it. That’s what they told me in rehab.”

“I’m seventy-two and I’m _dying_!” John shouted angrily.

Sherlock blinked, “Then you have a limited amount of time to remedy your mistakes. Luckily for you that isn’t _no_ time. Luckily for you _I’m_ here. This is the part where you invite me in.”

John swallowed his pills and stared into the mirror of his bathroom with a sense of dread. He’d spent so long hiding it just didn’t make sense anymore. Now there was an absolutely gorgeous young man offering to have sex. For money. That last bit was an important distinction. He’d considered rent boys on more than one occasion in his life, but he’d always just kept walking past them and went home to fantasize about it instead. Now he had a chance- a _discreet_ chance. For all intents and purposes if anyone had seen Sherlock walk into his house it was because he’d checked on the lad after he was sick and then the young thing had saved his life. Inviting him in for tea or an ice-cold glass of water was more than reasonable, especially with John being a doctor. Having him over again and again after that to mow his lawn, fix his plumbing, change a light bulb…

_Ride my cock until I come screaming his name as if two people like us ever had a chance. As if I weren’t looking down the barrel of a slow death. As if he weren’t young enough to be my grandson_.

John gave the mirror a critical stare. He wasn’t bad looking for his age, if he said so himself. A bit plump around the middle, but at least his skin wasn’t crawling with sunspots or sagging in spots. He didn’t stink (he’d asked a mate just in case he wouldn’t notice) and he wasn’t bald, though he was long past grey. He still jogged ten miles a day on principle and lifted the lowest weight dumbbells each morning. He couldn’t run or do pushups anymore, but he was extremely fit for his age. _And health._ The moustache should go, according to his future bedmate. John picked up a razor and ignored the part of his brain wondering when he’d have to switch to electric because his hands shook too much. He smiled at the mirror and headed out with a smooth face and his limp a bit less pronounced. He was already half hard and eager for more, though he probably owed at least some of that to the medicine he was taking: increased blood flow was a side effect.

“Well, much better,” Sherlock smirked over his teacup when John reemerged, “I prefer my doctor’s clean shaven.”

“That’s something you don’t hear every day.”

“You’re really seventy-two?” Sherlock asked, “You don’t look it. I’d have guessed fifties.”

“I take good care of myself. Doctor, remember?” John smiled as he sat down. He was trying to figure out how to take this from casual conversation to bed. Now that he had the young man in front of him he was eager to jump out of the closet and shake his big gay maracas in his face.

_Bollocks. I’m thinking about my bollocks in his face. Bloody hell I might actually_ have _my bollocks in his face at some point. And his in mine. Gods. How does that work? What do I do with another man’s bits? Am I too old to learn how to do this?_

“You’re not listening,” Sherlock laughed.

“What?”

“Your eyes glazed over, you were staring at me as if I were the most delicious meal you’ve ever seen.”

“You _are_ ,” John growled, impressed with the sound of his voice. Sherlock seemed to be too.

“I was _trying_ to tell you that I’m clean. I’ve been tested. No STI’s.”

“I don’t care. Dying, remember? I’d appreciate it if you stayed clean, though. I’d hate to think that I’m sleeping with someone who isn’t fully capable of consenting. Speaking of which, you _are_ an adult, right?”

“Want to see ID?”

“If you don’t mind?” John asked.

Sherlock fished out his wallet from his ridiculously tight trousers and tossed it to John who studied it with a critical eye. It was real. He’d had enough fake ones as a kid to know.

“Happy birthday,” John smirked, “I should get you a gift.”

Sherlock smirked and lounged back on the couch, “Well, I’ll certainly be giving _you_ quite the gift.”

John couldn’t even argue with that smug comment. He was dying to rip the young man’s clothes off, but he was so far from dealing with his attraction to men that he was just sitting there gripping the couch cushion between them.

Sherlock laughed, “You look fit to have a heart attack if I don’t jump your bones soon. Shall I relieve your agony?”

“Oh gods yes,” John breathed.

Sherlock slid across the couch like a snake, gliding up John’s body while he panted and stared in shock at this ethereal creature that haunted his dreams. Lips ghosted over his and then slipped down to nip at his jaw before sliding hot breath down his neck.

“Shall I undress you?” He whispered to John’s collar before taking it into his mouth and tugging.

“Yeah,” John panted, “But I want to undress you.”

“I’d like that,” He purred.

John’s brain slammed on the brakes.

“Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you? Besides money?”

Sherlock chuckled and lifted his head to give John a joking glare, “Sex?”

“With an old man?!” John laughed bitterly.

“With a fun old man who looks as alone as I usually feel,” Sherlock whispered, the smile disappearing from his lips as his eyes expressed the intensity of his words.

_Oh gods, those eyes._

“I won’t always be here, though. I’ll die and leave you alone again.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, “But until then we’ll have each other and… if I can do something decent for once in my life- something right- maybe I’ll have a memory that I don’t have to run to drugs for.”

It didn’t add up. It felt like a lie. He was _prostituting_ himself so that he’d feel as if he’d done something _decent_? It was a like John was eager to live with for as long as he could. He leaned forward and recaptured those plump lips to find the young thing pressing against him eagerly. He suffered a minor argument with his courage and then moved hand to Sherlock’s groin and whimpered to find that, yes, he _was_ getting hard. The lad rutted forward against his hand with a heady moan and John growled and pulled him a bit closer. Sherlock straddled John’s waist and they were soon snogging on the couch the way John had always wished he could as a teenager. He groaned and groped that lush arse and Sherlock gasped and did everything he could to press against John’s body more than was physically possible. John was relieved his illness had no physical pain associated besides the usual creaking joints of an old man. He tolerated them because he was close to coming in his trousers and the pain was holding him off.

Sherlock, however, had no such aches to hold him off and John stared in absolute awe and wonder as the young man threw his head back and came with a strangled scream. He was beautiful. His face was flushed, his eyes squeezed shut before flying open in shock and pleasure, his full lips were even more swollen from their kisses, and his hair was in disarray. John rolled his hips up into the lovely young man as he writhed in bliss and came with a long groan. He sagged back into the couch and stared up at the flustered young thing above him.

“Oh. Well. That was… you obviously caught me off guard and…” Sherlock babbled, his face horrified.

“It’s fine,” John smiled, “I was a bit overcome myself.”

He gestured to his own damp trouser fronts and Sherlock looked significantly relieved.

“You’re not… experienced. Are you?” John ventured.

Sherlock couldn’t have turned any more red than he already was, but his capillaries sure made an attempt.

“Well, prostitution isn’t something I’ve ever tried before but…”

“Sure. That’s got to be a bit of a kinky thrill,” John smiled, letting him lie a bit.

“Sure. So is being with such an older man.”

“Yeah, grandfather kinks are my main lay,” John chuckled.

Sherlock laughed as well and they were soon giggling shamelessly while peeling off their sodden clothes. John was hesitant to strip in front of the gorgeous creature, but he was so uninhibited, so utterly at ease, that he soon stripped clean and led the flaunting thing up to his shower. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Sherlock didn’t leave. Or rather he rarely left. He was sweet and charming… sometimes. Mostly he was stroppy and argumentative and made a mess in John’s kitchen by cooking the most fantastic and occasionally repellant meals he’d ever tasted.

“My parents were chemists,” Sherlock explained, “They spend all their time in their respective labs ignoring each other and my brother and I. It’s a miracle they found time to procreate. Mycroft- that’s my brother- theorizes that it was done by lab as well and that he was created by accident when they mixed up their test tubes in the washer and dryer. He thinks I’m adopted.”

“Why?” John chuckled, “Aside from the fact that two people would be unlikely to make the same literally _miraculous_ mistake twice?”

“Because I want to be a chef,” Sherlock smirked.

John chuckled and shook his head, popping another culinary delight into his mouth, “Well, you’ve certainly got the passion for it. And the skill… most of the time.”

“Cooking is like chemistry,” Sherlock explained, “There’s a set of rules to follow, a chemical equations that result in rising bread or the perfect combination of sweet and salty.”

“And you don’t like following them?” John asked.

“I don’t like being _limited_ by them,” Sherlock corrected, dropping a plate of something hot in front of him and then slapping his hand when he attempted to snatch a piece of the gooey bits, “Those are boiling hot. Wait at least ten minutes. I experiment with new methods and ingredients. Usually it’s good. Sometimes it’s horrific.”

As if to quantify his statement the next batch of sweets came out absolutely putrid and they had to flee the house with windows left open to avoid being sick. They went out to dinner where John was given odd looks for flirting with such a young man. They were shameless. John winked too often and Sherlock giggled and then refused to eat because the food wasn’t as good as his.

They went home and tumbled into bed. John had asked Sherlock to take things slowly with him so each night they were moving a little further. They’d experimented with stroking each other off one at a time, watching the other become so aroused that they couldn’t contain their cries, and then spilling themselves over the other’s hand. Then they’d done so in tandem and laughed at how difficult it was to stay in sync when they were approaching orgasm at a different rate. Tonight they tried oral and it was proving to be just as silly and fun.

Sherlock gagged on his cock while John did his best to not either bite through his lip or climax instantly. Sherlock looked far too good, and felt far too good, for John to make a fuss. He did anyway, because Sherlock’s eyes were watering and he looked like he wanted to stop.

“Here, let me try,” John argued, then tugged the lad up to straddle his head.

Sherlock panted as he leaned forward and braced himself on the bed above, leaning forward until his arms were strained behind and above him. He flexed his hips and lazily fucked John’s mouth while he did his best to coordinate tongue, throat, lips, and teeth. He found it shockingly good to choke on Sherlock’s prick the way the lad had been gagging on his. He gripped his hips so he could control it,  and set about breathing between intentionally stuffing that throbbing shaft down his throat.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, and came hard down his throat.

John choked, sputtered, snorted come out his nose, then wiped at the tears on his face while the lad babbled apologies and looked horrifed.

“That was bloody brilliant,” John croaked.

“You _liked_ that?” Sherlock asked.

“You didn’t?”

“It was awful. I couldn’t stand it.”

“Toss me off instead?” John asked, not even ashamed of the pleading tone.

Sherlock considered it, “No. I’m trying again. I’ll do it my way, though.”

Sherlock all but attacked his cock, but this time he stuck to the tip and lapped at him as if he were an ice cream cone. The remainder of his cock he stroked with a spit-slicked hand while stroking his bollocks. He reached a damp finger lower and stroked his pucker and John shivered as his pleasure began to climb faster and faster. Sherlock moaned around his cock. It was horribly fake but it rumbled down his shaft and it felt _so good_ and it sounded even better so John let himself enjoy it and made a mental note to tease him about it later.

Sherlock worked him for ages while John struggled back up to the brink. He may have been inexperienced but he wasn’t _young_ , and despite the fact that this was all new and wonderful he still had an old body that didn’t know how to keep up with his wishfully young libido. Finally he was _there_ and his body trembled as pleasure washed over him in waves. Sherlock sat up and smacked his lips, a considering look on his face.

“Not bad, actually. I wonder if it would go well in pudding? An extremely sweet dish could use a salty taste to counter it and the texture would go well with…”

Sherlock took off, bouncing out of the room with his plump ass jiggling on his way to the kitchen to commit crimes against food that John hoped he’d get to sample.

XXX

“How much…” The doctor tried to ask.

“I’m fine, Mike,” John grumbled, “I’m old and dying, but otherwise I’m fine.”

“John,” Mike sighed. Mike had been his doctor for the four years. He was a sweet and charming man, a bit plump and more than a little sweet.

“No. Don’t. I just want to pass in peace without being poked and prodded. When the pain starts up I’ll come to you. I won’t self medicate. Enough for you?”

“What about your emotions?” Mike asked carefully, “Did you see that counselor I told you about?”

“The professional dying person?” John snorted, “No.”

Mike launched into a clearly rehearsed speech and John tuned him out while he thought it over. Finally he decided to tell him the truth.

“I’m seeing someone.”

Mike blinked, then he cocked his head to one side. He studied John for a moment, decided he was serious, and gave him a look that passed pity and headed right for mourning.

“John… you know anyone you…”

“He’s a prostitute.”

“I… Oh. He?”

“Yeah,” John licked his lips and shifted on the padded exam table, “Congrats. You’re the first person I’m coming out to. Probably the last seeing as how I don’t know many people and have another five months to go.”

“Then… all those years… you said you didn’t care to date because you were focused on your work but…”

“I was so deep in the closet I was holding up Mr. Tumnus’ coat and hat. Yeah.”

“John,” Mike rubbed at his face, “Are you at least using…”

“Don’t,” John stated firmly, “Please don’t. No lecture. I’m dying. There’s no point. I’m getting what little out of life I can after a lifetime of _not getting anything_.”

“Gods, John, I’m so sorry,” Mike replied, grasping his hand tightly.

“Listen,” John sighed, “I’ve got a bit put away. I know that later on… Look, he’s trying to straighten out his life and… Well, my justifications aren’t important. The point is I want to leave him everything. The house, the car, everything. It would mean getting away from his parents. It would mean going to college- if he wants to. Or burning it all on coke. Whichever. I honestly don’t care, I just want to be more to him than a… I want to mean as much to him as he does to me.”

Mike looked ready to argue. He looked ready to laugh. Then he took a deep breath and John saw the second he decided to let John have his way.

“Okay. Yeah. Sure. What’s his name? I’ll talk to a friend and get things drawn up.”

XXX

Sherlock was dancing beautifully. He was waltzing around the room while John watched after having exhausted himself tripping over the lovely man’s feet. John laughed and clapped and Sherlock danced to a CD of himself playing when he was ten and still sweet and innocent enough to think his parents would love him if he played well enough.

John sipped his water and watched the crazy teen dancing around the room. Sherlock was made of water and rubber and magic and quite possibly all the gay in the universe. Sherlock was wearing leather pants with both ass cheeks cut out and a poufy white shirt. John was rock hard and tapping his foot while Sherlock made him long for him in ways he could never allow himself to feel before.

Sherlock shimmied his way over and undid John’s trousers, helping him slip out of him. He palmed his cock through his trousers while John growled hungrily at him.

“You sound like a tiger.”

“I’m starved for you.”

“I wish I’d known you when you were my age.”

“You parents weren’t even married when I was your age,” John scoffed.

“I bet you fucked _hard_.”

“Is that what you want? Me to fuck you hard?” John purred as the gorgeous man slipped into his lap.

“Mmmm, I think that’s what _you_ want to do.”

“I want to do both. I don’t care which we do first. You pick.”

Sherlock leaned forward, blushing prettily, and whispered into his ear, “I want to fuck you.”

“Hard?” John teased.

“Any way you like,” Sherlock murmured, punctuating each word with a kiss.

They moved upstairs because John’s back couldn’t handle sex on the couch and collapsed into bed with a happy sigh. They stripped each other’s clothes off slowly, Sherlock’s clothes being the most difficult to get off. When they were finally naked they spent some time exploring each other’s bodies as if it weren’t all a month and a half old. Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s chest hair and purred as if a matte of grey chest hair were the sexiest thing he’d ever come across. He lapped at John’s nipples and then gave each a soft nip to draw a gasp from him.

“You’re gorgeous,” John breathed, because it was true and he _needed_ to say something besides that he loved a young man who he couldn’t really have or keep.

“You’re charming,” Sherlock replied, because he had yet to lie to John and the older man was not gorgeous.

Sherlock slipped away to fetch a bottle of lube he’d had sitting in a shopping bag by John’s bed for ages. He came back with condoms as well and blushed a bit as he opened one.

“It will make clean up easier,” Sherlock explained. Left unmentioned was that it would hold off the young man who tended to go off like a shot the second he got a bit of friction on his dick.

John smiled and got on his hands and knees for Sherlock who hesitated a moment.

“I’m clean. I used one of those kits you bought.”

“You knew I’d want this?”

“I’d want to top for my first time too.”

“This _is_ your first time,” Sherlock pointed out, because they’d stopped pretending by now.

“Yes, but your first time is more important, and you’re younger, and you don’t like your ass played with half as much as I do.”

“You do seem to like it,” Sherlock chuckled.

“I’m too old to be ashamed,” John sniffed proudly, “So don’t bother trying.”

“Oh, _shame_ the last thing on my mind,” Sherlock purred with that sinfully deep voice.

Then he did something absolutely filthy and wonderful and John gasped as he started to harden far more than he usually did at the blissful feel of Sherlock’s tongue lapping at his entrance.

“Oh my _gods_!” John gasped.

“Like it?” Sherlock asked, his lips teasing at nerve endings John didn’t know he’d had until that moment.

“Fuck!” John gasped, and pressed back for more.

Sherlock worked his tongue against his pucker for a bit while John whimpered and keened in pleasure. After a moment he realized the pressure was increasing and gasped as he felt himself simply twitch open. Sherlock’s tongue dipped inside and John felt his bollocks draw up as he realized he was being penetrated for the first time and it was by an absolutely _beautiful_ man’s tongue.

“Oh gods oh gods!” John cried out, and had he been younger he would have been spilling himself across the bedding at that moment.

Sherlock slipped his tongue away and John automatically cursed at him for it, but the young man only chuckled and slipped a wet finger inside his gaping hole. John stilled in shock and stayed frozen while Sherlock pumped that finger in and out.

“It’s odd,” He replied, sensing Sherlock’s question.

“Do you want me to-?”

“No. Keep going,” John replied, not shocked that his ardor was slipping away. Sherlock gripped his cock and stroked him back to hardness while slipping in a second finger.

John wriggled a bit and arched back, trying to enjoy the strange sensation.

“Try to find my prostate. It might feel good. Some blokes like that.”

“Where?” Sherlock asked.

“Crook your fingers a bit, as if you’re reaching towards my bollocks and… no that’s not… okay… a bit good… FUCK!”

John’s hips flew back and Sherlock pulled his fingers out in shock.

“Get. Back. In!” John snarled.

Sherlock hurried to comply and John moaned as he began to stroke his prostate over and over again. John was hard and leaking, his cock throbbing as desire pooled inside of him. Sherlock had somehow slipped in a third finger and John had registered the burn as pure bliss. When he slipped all three fingers out John snapped at him as if he were a disobedient recruit.

“Get back in there _now_ son!”

“Sir! Yes! Sir!”

Sherlock pressed the head of his cock to John’s arse and pushed through the first ring of muscles. He stilled a moment, gasping and trembling a bit, and John sobered as he recalled that this wasn’t _just_ about him. Sherlock slid a fraction of an inch out, whimpered, and then pushed in to the hilt with a low groan. John breathed through it, pushing back as he went, and they both stilled to gather themselves.

“Oh my gods, I’m inside you,” Sherlock whimpered.

“Yeah,” John panted, “S’good.”

“It’s _tight_ ,” Sherlock gasped, then pulled most of the way out as if to demonstrate his point and plunged back in. He moaned as if he’d found nirvana.

“Prostate,” John reminded, shifting his hips a bit.

“ _You_ try this and see how well you think with your cock in someone!” Sherlock snapped.

John grinned, “I intend to.”

Sherlock moaned and adjusted his angle to begin brushing against the doctor’s sweet spot. John joined him in making delighted sounds, pushing back on his cock despite the protest of his knees and wrists. Sherlock’s hips sped up far too soon for John, who tried to grasp his cock but couldn’t maintain the balance.

“Lock,” John gasped, “Please. My dick. Touch… p…pl…”

Sherlock leaned forward and draped himself over John, using one long arm to brace himself on the bed and the other to grasp John’s cock. He began to stroke him fast and sure and John felt himself catch up to Sherlock as pleasure spiraled through his body. Sherlock’s body was stuttering, the rhythm off as he chased his climax, and John groaned his excitement and let himself tumble towards ecstasy.

“Yes! Yes!” Sherlock cried out, “John!”

And John actually _felt_ him pulsing out his release inside the flimsy rubber. John spiraled into rapture, his cock painting the bed as he shouted out his release. Sherlock’s arms were shaking from the effort not to collapse on him, so John forgave him the abrupt and a bit painful exit from his body as the lad tossed himself down on the bed.

“Gods!” Sherlock gasped, and John rolled sideways to lay with him. He was wheezing a bit and Sherlock worriedly checked his pulse.

“I’m fine. Just well shagged,” John chuckled.

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m positive. It’s fine. You were wonderful. Brilliant.”

Sherlock chuckled, “You only love me for my cock.”

They both stilled as Sherlock realized what he’d said.

“I’m dying, Sherlock…” John started, his throat catching.

“Don’t, John,” Sherlock pleaded, arm wrapping tightly around him as he spooned him on the bed, “Just let me have what time we have. Four and a half more months, right?”

“Less than,” John replied miserably, “I’ll deteriorate long before that. You won’t want to be around me then.”

“Yes I will,” Sherlock replied softly, “This stopped being about money weeks ago. Maybe after the first day. You know that.”

John did, but he didn’t say so out loud because it was too cruel. Their time together cut short by circumstance of birth and his own bitter diagnosis. To have loved and lost… John was regretting it and cherishing it at the same time. He hated to know he was going to leave this wonderful young man behind, but he was greedily lapping up every drop of affection he could get. The sex had become secondary. It was about those eyes dancing when John told a joke, or savoured his cooking, or brought him off with a now expert hand.

_I’m a greedy old man. I should be ashamed. So why aren’t I? Why am I hoping he’s telling the truth and will stay with me long after I’m hooked up to machines and blacked out on morphine?_

John ran his fingers over Sherlock’s slender wrist and welcomed the darkness of a dreamless sleep.

**TRIGGER WARNING: Descriptions of hospice care, then the epilogue. Story does NOT end with John’s death, there’s more to it.**


	3. vincentmeoblinn | The View from the Closet Ch 3

 

It happened so suddenly that John found himself completely at a loss, shocked that he now had to mourn his mobility. One minute he was laying on the bed watching Sherlock bounce up and down on his cock, moaning as he chased his release while John stroked him off, and then the next minute he was walking down the street completely naked and soaking wet. He looked around himself in confusion while a neighbor stood there trying to talk him into taking a blanket she was holding out. She was staring at him in pity and John was so humiliated that he took the blanket and wrapped it around himself without saying a word. The police showed up. Then Mike. Then he was told it was time to go into a nursing home- they didn’t think he could care for himself anymore.

John tried to convince them that he had someone to take care of him so he wanted to stay home, that it wasn’t someone insurance needed to worry about.

“He just lost sight of me,” John argued when they stepped into his house to find Sherlock, “He’ll be more careful once I explain to him that I need to be watched all the time. He’s rarely sleeps anyway and…”

John stared around the living room. Sherlock’s things had been strewn about the sitting room rather than taking up residence in John’s room because they wanted _some_ boundaries between them to prepare for his death. They were gone. Not a single CD remained. John worried his lip as he puttered into the kitchen; his near nudity forgotten as his heart slowly broke in half. The pans were cleaned up almost as if in apology for abandoning him to his death alone.

John helped Mike pack up a duffel bag, clutching his favourite book to his chest as he left the house he’d lived in for the last thirty-five years.

“Do you think I’ll be able to read it one last time?” John asked.

“We’ll see,” Mike replied gently as they got into his car, “Let’s get you to St. Bart’s and take a peek inside your skull. We’ll see how far it’s advanced you are.”

John thought it was rather nice of him to be honest rather than pretend he was a patient who didn’t have a medical degree and wouldn’t see right through his bullshit. John was settled into a ward until space could be found in a nearby nursing home. Meanwhile they subjected him to another battery of tests before declaring that it was _not_ time for hospice yet.

“Just a nursing home. You’ll have hot nurses doting on you, sponge baths, free cable…” Mike replied cheerfully.

“Your knowledge of nursing homes clearly comes from strange pornos and comedies,” John grumbled.

He spent the night in the hospital and then was checked into the nursing home the next day. It was small and clean. He hated it instantly. He sat himself down on the bed and tried not to scream in frustration. Then he walked in. Sherlock strode into the room as if he owned the place and gave John a furious look.

“You could have left me a _note_ ,” He snapped, “I couldn’t find you! You just vanished out of the shower and didn’t come back!”

“I thought you left,” John gaped at him, “Your stuff was gone.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “We had a row about me cleaning the place up, remember? I did so. It was in your study. Your welcome.”

John gave him a relieved look and was about to suggest that they go home when guilt hit him like a ton of bricks.

“I’ll… I’ll tell them you’re my grandson,” John stated, “That way you can keep visiting.”

Sherlock frowned, “I came to _get_ you. To take you home.”

John shook his head, “It’s better for me here. I’m going to keep getting worse and you haven’t got a nursing degree. I’d prefer your company over your coddling anyway.”

Sherlock pouted and dropped into a ragged chair, “How will we have _sex_?”

“Buy a ‘do not disturb’ sign?” John wondered.

Sherlock grinned, “What will the nurses think of you buggering your ‘grandson’?”

John and Sherlock dissolved into giggles.

“They’ll be mortified!” John gasped.

“We should be _shamefully_ loud!”

“I’m too old to be ashamed.”

“And I’m too young to be ashamed,” Sherlock snickered.

“Let’s shame all the people in between our ages,” John declared.

XXX

“To Kill a Mockingbird,” Sherlock read the title, “What’s this about, then?”

“Racism. Acceptance. Love. Hatred. The unfairness of the world. Being different. The innocence of children.”

“So it’s your life story, then.”

John smiled at Sherlock and stroked his fingers over the lads knuckles, “You can go if you want. I don’t expect you to stick around.”

“Your expectations are ridiculously low in life, which is exactly why you’ve gotten exactly nothing out of it.”

“Does that mean you’re staying?”

“That means I expect a decent hand job after I finish reading each chapter,” Sherlock replied, and leaned back in the horrid chair to begin reading out loud.

XXX

“You’re very handsome,” John smiled at the pretty young thing sitting at his bedside.

The stranger smiled. He was handsome, despite the fact that he had dark circles under his eyes and looked as if he’d been crying.

“Do you know who I am, John?” The dark haired beauty asked.

“No, but I’d _like_ to get to know you,” John winked at him.

The lovely young thing laughed bitterly, tears starting up in his eyes, “ _Now_ you figure out how to hit on someone. Not that it would have mattered. You’d have never touched me when I was underage.”

John snorted, “How old do you think I am? We can’t be far from the same age.”

“Oh yeah?” The young man flicked his curls back, “Then let’s get busy, yeah?”

He was gorgeous. It was wonderful watching him writhe in his lap, their cocks lined up as the beautiful creature panted and clasped their members together. John ran his fingers through that wild hair and tried not to get distracted by how odd his hands looked or why his pubic hair had suddenly turned grey. There were much more important things right now, like the gorgeous creature panting in his lap and then coming across his chest. He was kind enough to finish John off by sucking on his cock as if he were the tastiest sucker he’d ever come across.

John moaned as he spilled himself into that willing mouth and then smiled lazily up at him.

“You’re brilliant,” He panted.

“Thanks,” The pretty thing replied, wiping off his mouth on his sleeve.

“I’ve never done that before,” John admitted shyly, “You’re pretty good at it. Wonderful, really. Was I okay?”

The softest, saddest, smile crossed those pouty lips and he brushed them across John’s where he marveled at the taste of his own come.

“You were perfect,” The pretty young man whispered.

XXX

There were tubes everywhere. He vaguely realized he’d woken up like this before, but it didn’t take away the sense that it was all new and terrifying or that just a few hours ago he’d been young and headed for rugby practice. A gorgeous young man was standing by his bedside, reading ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ with dramatic expertise. He was acting out each part and giving John a reason not to close his eyes and sob at the unfairness of it all.

_ “I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.” _

That rich timbre was like an anchor keeping him sane, keeping him from despair, even as it voiced his every concern and fear through a book he had always known described _him_ even as it showed the sort of family he’d always wished he’d had. The gorgeous thespian moved through the (hospital?) room and ranted at the walls, sparing him a tender glance between lines. Then he collapsed into a chair and smiled at him softly.

“Remember me today?”

John shook his head weakly.

“That’s okay. I’m used to it now. You look good today, darling.”

_ Darling _ ?

“Yes, that’s right. You don’t know. We’re a couple. Have been for months. You _adore_ me, and I let you.”

The pretty young man chuckled at his own joke and John smiled at him weakly. He liked him. He was attractive and fun. He let himself fall asleep to the sound of the young man babbling about cupcakes. The world became darker and darker, quieter and quieter, softer and softer. Warm lips stroked his and he smiled softly before letting out one final sigh.


	4. vincentmeoblinn | The View from the Closet Epilogue

 

Sherlock’s headphones were quite adept at drowning out the sound of the lawn mower, so there was no need to employ another technique when it came to ignoring the copper standing there waving at him on the sidewalk, his face puce from outrage.

_Former copper._ _At least detective rank. Retired for ten or more years. In his late seventies. Prematurely grey. Married and divorced once. Widowed the second go round. Recently lost someone._

He sighed when the bastard actually tried to use his old warrant card to get him to talk to him and switched off the mower. He walked over to him, pulling off his headphones, and snarled out an answer to his unspoken questions.

“No.”

“No what?” The bloke asked, looking surprised.

“No to everything you were going to shout at me. I do not believe that you’re a copper. You _were_ , but you’ve since retired. Just the fact that you’re old as fuck is enough evidence for that. I do not care how long you’ve been waving at me. I am not high or drunk or whatever it is you think teens do these days. I do not care why you are here.”

The man blinked in surprise and then gave him a miserable grin, one that stated that he was going to have to do something _nice_ for Sherlock when he’d rather eat shit or die than be kind to such an asshole. Sherlock was familiar with the look as his brother wore it rather often.

“You have no idea how damn lucky you are that you mowed this lawn last summer.”

“Yes, because skin cancer and dehydration are my lifelong goals,” Sherlock snarked, turning to walk away as he decided the bastard didn’t have anything he wanted.

“The owner of this house died.”

Sherlock paused and frowned, “The neighbors told me he was on his deathbed. They said to keep mowing the lawn anyway. They’re paying me. Have you told them? I need the money for school.”

“They know. He died two days ago. His funeral is tomorrow. We’ve been moving stuff out of the house and I’ve been keeping an eye out for you. The owner left you something.”

“Me?” Sherlock wondered, turning back around, “Why? We never spoke. He was so damn shy it was pathetic. All I did was mow his lawn and he’d toss the money down on the railing. He wouldn’t even _touch my hand_. The homophobe.”

“Watch your filthy mouth!” The former detective snarled, “He was one of the bravest men I ever knew. He invaded _Afghanistan_ and lived to tell about it! Despite being shot!”

“That doesn’t make you brave, it just makes you capable of taking orders and being made of solid matter. Respectively.”

The man looked confused, but then he dismissed it all, “Look, the guy who lived here… did anyone tell you what he died of?”

“No. I assumed it was something mental after I heard about him wandering around naked.”

“Yeah. Sort of. He had a tumor in his brain. It was inoperable. Six years ago they irradiated it and he went into remission, but then it came back with a vengeance nine months ago. He was given six months to live, obviously he outlived that estimate, but no one realized how quickly he was deteriorating mentally. It was causing hallucinations. About you.”

“Me?” Sherlock asked, feeling off kilter.

“Yeah. He had a crush on you. A _huge_ one, but he was so used to being in the closet that… well, I won’t make excuses for him. You’d not have been interested in an old man anyway.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure _how_ to respond to that. He just shifted his feet and waited for the punch line.

“Anyway,” The detective continued, “We found out a few months after his diagnosis that he’d invented this imaginary relationship with you. He’d gone so far as to put you in his Will.”

Sherlock snorted, “Let me guess? All I have to do is give you a few thousand pounds in cash or travelers cheques so you can get the legal aspects taken care of, and my bank information, and then in a month you’ll wire me the money once the estate clears up? Oh, and he had an entire _mansion_ in Nigeria, right?”

“Nope. You don’t owe anyone a penny, and this isn’t a scam,” The man replied with a bitter laugh, “All you have to do is show up at his funeral tomorrow and collect the keys from the lawyer. We tried to get him to change his Will but he wouldn’t hear of it. He cursed us out and told us he _loved_ you. We could have gotten a lawyer and declared him incompetent but we finally decided that… well, last wishes are last wishes. It doesn’t matter to us. We’re all set for life, what would we do with two houses and a car?”

“Two houses and a car?” Sherlock repeated in shock. This actually sounded _legitimate._ Barking mad, but legitimate nonetheless.

“Yeah, this house,” The man indicated the one behind him, “His offices on Baker Street from when he had a practice, and the car in the garage over there. We did talk him out of giving you the contents, which is why we’ve been packing them up. Some of us want some reminders of our friend, you know? You can look through what’s left over and keep it or trash it for all I care.”

The man handed the stunned Sherlock Holmes an invitation to the funeral and then started to leave before recalling something and turning back.

“Oh, I almost forgot. There _was_ something he insisted you be given from inside the house. Let me go get it. It seemed… important. To him, anyway.”

Sherlock stood there, dripping sweat and feeling gross. It was the first hot day of summer and he hadn’t even been to this neighborhood in months. Yet apparently the man had imagined them as lovers this entire time. It was mad. Utterly barmy. The detective returned and held out a book. It was a tattered and much loved copy of To Kill a Mockingbird _._ Sherlock stared at it in confusion.

“It was his favourite book,” The man explained.

Sherlock opened the cover instinctively and stared down at a message scrawled within.

_Sherlock,_

_I know you’re missing me, but I hope you will be as brave as Atticus was and carve a future for yourself. I want you to change the world, my love. One pastry at a time. I believe in you._

_Love,_

_John Watson_

“Pastry?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“Hallucinations, remember? He’d decided you were a culinary genius. You should have seen the state of his kitchen before we scrubbed it up for you. I think he was actually cooking ‘with’ you.”

Sherlock stared up at him in confusion, “He got the genius part right, but I want to be a detective.”

“Oh yeah?” The man replied, his eyes brightening, “Well, maybe I can help you with that. See you at the funeral tomorrow.”

Sherlock stared down at the book and tried to imagine being loved _so much_ that he would be given two houses, a car, and this book with such a personal and (he assumed) inspiring note inside. He felt a bit sick. He’d never known that kind of love. His parents were alcoholics and his brother was over-parenting him in their stead, but it was with a sense of bitterness since he had never gotten a childhood. Sherlock held the book to his chest and wondered. He tried to picture the shy man he’d seen on the porch laughing and smiling, his eyes full of love and acceptance as he encouraged Sherlock to follow his dreams.

XXX

Sherlock had talked himself out of staying for the funeral by the afternoon of the next day, but then he’d walked through the doors and his eyes had met those of the detective from the previous day and he’d frozen. The man was giving the eulogy and there were tears freely falling down his cheeks.

“Then the berk told me he wasn’t going to take that lying down. He hefted his cane up and _chased the mugger down_. I caught up with him after the mugger had started crying like a baby and there was John, just handing the lady her purse and being as polite as ever an English gentleman was!”

The room chuckled a bit and Lestrade sniffled, “The point is, John wasn’t just an army doctor, or a friend, or a brother. He was a damned good person. Someone who you could lean on when times were tough and he’d hold you up as best he could, even if it was chaffing on his bad shoulder. He didn’t care who or what you were as long as you didn’t hurt anyone he loved. He’d have killed for anyone in this room.”

Sherlock felt his throat close as the detective’s eyes drilled into him.

“And we’d have killed for him,” Lestrade finished, “Hell, some of us did. Major Sholto? I believe you had a few words to say.”

Lestrade stepped down and a man in uniform, who looked as ancient as Rome, shakily but proudly strode up to the podium. Lestrade headed for Sherlock and took him by the elbow. Sherlock let him because his insides had turned to goo at the sight of the coffin he was being led to.

He hadn’t changed much. He was a bit thinner and his face was obviously deathly pale beneath the mortician’s makeup, but otherwise he looked the same. Only dead. Dead and incapable of loving anyone ever again. It suddenly struck Sherlock that the man had told him John had remained closeted. That meant he might never… that Sherlock might have been his only…

“What do you want from me?” Sherlock whispered, “I never knew him. I was just a figment of his diseased mind.”

“I know, but you can still pay your respects. He fought for your freedom, you know. You’ve got to respect at least _that_ much.”

“There’s nothing to do here,” Sherlock argued softly, eyes casting about for a way out, “This isn’t John Watson it’s just… transport. John Watson is gone.”

“I know that. You’ve no idea how much I know that. You think this is the first friend I’ve buried? Just… say a few words to him and I’ll introduce you to the lawyer. You can at least thank him.”

Sherlock stared down and his mind railed at how _pointless_ this was, but the words tumbled out anyway.

“Thank you and… I wish I _had_ known you.”

Or that was what he’d meant to say. What came out was: “I wish I’d had the chance to love you back.”

Sherlock stared at the man beside him in horror, but he’d already moved on and was tugging Sherlock towards a copious young man and a young woman in slinky black clothes and red lipstick that even Sherlock recognized as inappropriate for the occasion.

“Mike, this is Sherlock Holmes, John’s imaginary boyfriend. Sherlock, Mike was John’s doctor. He can answer any questions you might have. Ms. Adler, here’s your new client.”

“Thanks Greg,” Ms. Adler said softly, giving everyone around her a flirty smile, “Let’s go talk in private, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, accepted Mike’s card, and followed Ms. Adler out into the hall of the funeral home. They chatted for a few moments about legalities and Sherlock nodded as he was informed about the condition of both properties and the taxes and other such trivialities. Finally she handed him a ring of three keys and showed him to his new car. They took a trip to an office to finalize everything and then a dazed Sherlock Holmes entered his new home.

It smelled nice. Warm and inviting. Nothing like his childhood had been. He walked through the entire place, studying pictures that hadn’t been snatched up and making a face at the dull clothes the man had in his closet. Finally he ended up sitting on the couch and staring at the mantel where a human skull rested. It was likely for medical purposes, but its presence struck Sherlock as symbolic. Here this man had died and left a stranger, whom he’d loved dearly, nearly all his worldly possessions. Sherlock, who had been in and out of rehab since he was fourteen, was just starting to try and get his life back together. His home life was stifling, but he had no way to break free. Until now. Until a complete stranger who had just happened to like his arse gave him hope and a future.

Sherlock knew what he would do. He packed up the furniture and sold the house. It had no meaning to him. He moved the furniture to Baker Street, which had long been closed up, and set up on the first floor. He got the rest of the place cleaned up and repaired with the money from the sale of the house. He turned it into a set of flats and sent for the nanny, Mrs. Hudson, who had been the closest person to him in his entire life. He moved her into the ground floor. Then he called Mike and got in touch with Greg through him.

“Lestrade,” The man gruffed into the phone.

“Hello Lestrade,” Sherlock stated calmly, “I’m all set up.”

“Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Sherlock Holmes, and I’d like to discuss my position with you.”

“What position?”

“The one I’ll soon be occupying. I trust you still have contacts in the Yard?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So I’ll need them. Make the arrangements. Tell them I’m a Consulting Detective.”

It took a bit of arguing- and patience when the bastard laughed at him for a good five minutes- but Sherlock got through to him eventually. Then he sat down in his chair and stared across at the empty one. It was worn and carried the indent of its former owner. Sherlock smiled at it and the skull and decided his life _was_ worth living. He had someone to model it after now. A man who had lived, loved, regretted, and died with Sherlock’s names on his lips. He was a flawed model, but Sherlock was willing to learn from his mistakes. For starters, he’d come out to his family. They were old blood and had chucked him out on his ear, but he’d had a home to go to. He was going to make it.

With a contented sigh he picked up a book from the table beside his chair and began to read out loud to the skull:

_ “Atticus said to Jem one day, "I’d rather you shot at tin cans in the backyard, but I know you’ll go after birds. Shoot all the blue jays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird." That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. "Your father’s right," she said. "Mockingbirds don’t do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” _ __


End file.
